Both or None
by Zealous Iconoclast
Summary: Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice: liberty or loyalty.
1. Part One

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part One**

You had to use your handkerchief, that was the secret. If you spent the whole meal mopping your brow, wiping your nose and picking at your ears with a faded scrap of flannel, they were too busy watching your flying right hand for signs of hoarding to notice the quick, subtle snatches of your left hand as it snuck morsels of food from your plate to your pockets.

Of course, the real trick to not getting caught was not to try for a second helping. Some of the others tried that, and they almost always got caught. But Al Calavicci knew better. You could try to get more than your share, or you could try to save your rations for later. If you were stupid enough or greedy enough to try both at once, well, you got what you deserved.

The potatoes were boiled today, not mashed. He was glad: boiled potatoes were easier to transport. The dry, woody string beans could be folded into the coarse bread. With a little maneuvering the mashed carrots could be balled up and wrapped into a corner of your shirt. Only the thin beef broth with the barley floating in it could not be snuck out of the dining room. Which was just as well, because his stomach was growling. He drank the fluid, which was tepid now, then scooped up the soggy grains and chewed them slowly. He picked up his tin mug of water and sipped at it. The war was over now, and the little ones had milk with their suppers again, but the bigger students still had to make do with water. There was butter on the bread on Sundays now, too, if you weren't being punished. Sometimes there were even pastries for dessert on Sundays. If you weren't being punished.

Al was smaller than the other boys his age, and the bench was just a little too high for him, so that he couldn't quite put his feet flat on the floor. By the end of a meal they always felt heavy and tired. He swung his right foot so that it kicked the crossbar that ran the length of the bench.

Andy McGinnis kicked him in the shin. "Don't do that, you're shaking the table," he said. McGinnis was the biggest boy in the sixth grade, and he was a bully.

Al winced a little at the pain, but didn't cry out. Instead he stuck out his tongue, quickly and furtively so that Sister wouldn't see.

"I guess that's my business," he said boldly. He was a little afraid of the bigger boy and the way he could hit you in the stomach so it knocked all the wind out of you but never left a mark, but he would never admit it.

"Yeah?" McGinnis grunted. "Well, I guess you don't know what's g—"

The sharp clap of Sister Agnes's hands signalled the end of supper and cut him off mid-sentence. The quiet hum of a dozen conversations died instantly. Talking was not encouraged during meals, but it was strictly prohibited afterwards, when everyone was expected to rise in an orderly fashion and carry their dishes to the low counter that separated the main room from the kitchen.

Al got to his feet and picked up his dishes, then glanced furtively at the Sisters watching the proceedings, and darted between Norma and Dot Winters' elbows and under the fourth-grade table. He slid over to the crowd of little second-graders. Billy Cox was trying to gather his cutlery single-handed, hampered by the bigger bodies jostling around him. With a quick, assertive motion Al reached over the child's shoulder and grabbed them. The plate was next, then the dented tin mug. Billy looked up, and his smile was payment for the trouble the big boys were going to give him about this later.

"Al!" he said thickly, the frozen side of his face hampering his diction.

Al shook his head as the word carried a little too far in the quiet. He put a finger to his lips, then grabbed the dishes with both hands and ducked back the way he had come. He shuffled into the line moving towards the basin, and watched out of the corner of his eye while Billy moved towards the door, slowed by his crutch and his twisted foot.

The biggest girls began to herd the very small children off towards the dormitories, lining up the four- and five-year-olds and lifting the toddling three-year-olds into their arms. Ana Fefner started to cry. She wasn't three yet, and should have been with the babies in Sister Dorothy's care, but she had been promoted to the big room with half a dozen others who could walk and talk and use spoons. There were just too many little ones now.

Al froze at the sound of her sobs, watching to see if anybody would go to her. He wasn't sure what he would do if no one did, because to go after a little girl was the height of taboo, but the problem never arose. Elsa Dombrowski picked up the child and patted her back consolingly. Elsa was going to be eighteen soon, and it was the general consensus that she was going to become a novice. Al secretly thought that that was a waste of a pretty, soft body that looked like it would be fun to feel and squeeze. She was surprisingly round under the shabby charity dress, and very mature. She looked like Ana's mother as she cuddled the little girl, quieting her cries.

A sharp elbow caught Al in the ribs.

"Move it along, Calavicci!" Tony Dinelli hissed. Al trotted ahead four steps to close the gap in the line.

As each group disposed of their dishes they moved off towards their chores. The little girls, the ones in the first through fourth grades, had gathered the little ones' plates. Now they got wet rags and started to wipe down the tables. Their male contemporaries headed for the doors: it was their job to tidy the school rooms for the next day. The girls in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades went to the kitchen to wash and dry the dishes. There were three dozen of them, so the job didn't take long. The biggest girls were putting the smallest children to bed, and the biggest boys tramped out to the yard to do what needed to be done out there-—not much now that autumn was almost over.

The middle boys went up and down the rows of tables in pairs, hoisting the benches onto them, upside down so that the legs stuck up into the air. Because he was being punished for something---he was currently serving six consecutive sentences for a variety of crimes extending from hiding Sister Agnes's ruler to sneaking into the biggest girls' dormitory at one in the morning—Al picked up one of the heavy straw brooms and started sweeping as his peers finished with the benches and started to leave.

Andy McGinnis did not go right away. Instead he snickered and started working his way towards Al. "Having fun, Calavicci?" he asked.

Al didn't answer him. He wanted to fight him, but Sister Agnes had said if he got into another fight he wouldn't be able to be in the play at Christmas. So Al kept sweeping.

"I said, having fun, Calavicci?" McGinnis repeated. "You deaf?"

"I have more fun brushing my teeth than you're gonna have your whole life," Al retorted, quietly so that Sister couldn't hear.

"Think you're funny, don't you?" McGinnis asked.

Al kept his eyes on the broom. As a matter of fact, he did think he was funny, and a lot of other kids did too. But if he said anything McGinnis would hit him, and then he'd have to hit him back, and he'd be banned from the Christmas play. He moved the broom methodically. He was an efficient sweeper, and his quarter of the room was Already reduced to an ever-compressing heap of dust. McGinnis poked him painfully in the ribs.

"Calavicci!" he said. "I said, you think you're funny!"

Angered by the sharp pain in his side, Al didn't try to talk himself out of cutting back with an acerbic, "I think I know how to spell my own last name."

Some of the boys watching from a safe distance snickered, and Al felt a flush of pride. He'd scored a point against McGinnis.

"You saying I'm stupid, Calavicci? Hey? You saying I'm stupid?" the big boy demanded.

"Don't have to say things as obvious as that," Al retorted.

McGinnis looked angry enough to spit or even to hit Al in the mouth. But a cough from the front of the room told the boys that Sister Agnes had them in her sight. So the burly Mick shuffled right through the neat pile of dust Al had just finished making, scattering it in every direction.

Al bit his lip against the anger rising in his throat. He wanted to hit McGinnis with the broom, but Sister was watching and he couldn't miss out on the Christmas play. He had a big part this year, bigger than anybody but the high school kids. So he gripped the thick wooden handle until his knuckles turned white while McGinnis and his gang moved off, chortling nastily. When they were gone he started over again.


	2. Part Two

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part Two**

After their evening chores the children who weren't being punished were allowed free time. Some played in the yard, the smallgymnasium in theschool wingwas unlocked and balls brought out, the bigger boys practiced their boxing, there was the old upright piano in the music room to play, and the radio was turned on in the parlor. Some children studied, some amused themselves quietly in the dormitories.

That was what Al usually did, when he wasn't being punished—so actually it wasn't what he _usually_ did at all. And he didn't amuse himself in his own dormitory either, though that was a more academic point. Halfway through the fourth grade he had discovered that kissing girls was more fun than dipping their pigtails in the inkwells. Most of the girls liked him because he was funny and not stupid, so it wasn't hard to find one willing to hide in a cupboard and experiment a little. Now that he was eleven and a half, and had seen a bit of the world, he didn't just kiss them anymore either. He also liked to put his hands on the front of their dresses and squeeze the soft parts of their bodies, where they had all been flat like boys just a couple years ago. That was the nice thing about the drab charity hamper clothes they all wore: they were good and thin and easy to feel through. Pretty soon he'd work up the courage to ask one of the girls to unbutton the front of her dress.

Now, however, he was being punished. He'd spilled the box of pencils in geometry class on Monday, and while he was crawling around picking them up he had taken the opportunity to tie McGinnis's shoe strings together. When he had tried to get up, he'd fallen flat on his face. The whole class had laughed except McGinnis and Sister Agnes. She had been angry.

So Al sat at his desk while everybody else was off having fun, copying pages from the dictionary. His stomach snarled angrily as he worked. He frowned and focussed on the shape of his letters. If his cursive was sloppy Sister would make him copy the page over again. The task was dull enough without doing the same definitions twice.

He could smell the coldstring beans in his pocket, and his mouth started watering. He swung his right leg, scuffing the sole of his shoe on the floor. His feet itched. He set down the pen and untied them, kicking them off. Then he peeled off his socks and tried to focus back on the copy-work, but he was restless. He was hungry, too, but it didn't do to think about that.

He started a new page. His stomach roared in protest. He chewed on the handle of his pen. It didn't help. Maybe he could eat the carrots and just a little piece of the bread. It was _his _supper, after all.

He pushed that thought out of his mind and dipped the pen again.

"What are you doing, young man?" a stern voice asked. Sister Agnes.

Al spun around, raking the pen across the page without meaning to. "Sister!" he said, startled.

Sister Agnes entered the room imperiously. Few of the nuns cut as impressive a figure as she did in her perfect black habit. "Put your shoes back on, Albert," she said.

"Aw, Sister, don't make me do that!" Al cried without thinking. "They're too big and they itch my feet. I want my old shoes back!"

She fixed him with her firm, cold eyes. "Nonsense," she said. "Your old ones were so tight that they were bruising your toes, and they fit Tommy Welburne perfectly."

"Well, them new ones don't fit _me _perfectly!" Al snapped. "And they're givin' me blisters. Look!" He stuck his left foot out into the aisle.

"Do not take that tone, Albert," Sister said sharply. Al cringed a little at the sound of her voice, wishing he'd thought to hide her ruler again. "Apologize."

" 'M sorry for taking that tone, Sister,' he mumbled, glaring defiantly into his lap. "But they do too give me blisters," he muttered.

"Let me see your work," Sister said. Al turned back into the desk and picked up the papers. A long, blurry line of ink scored the top one in half. His heart sank. "What's this?" Sister asked austerely, taking it from him.

"It was your fault," Al said stiffly. He wanted to cry, even though he was a big boy, almost grown up and too old to cry. Everything always went wrong. It wasn't fair. "You made me jump, coming up behind, sneaking."

"We must not blame others for our misfortunes," Sister said. It was one of her favorite expressions. "The other pages are acceptable, but you will have to do this one over."

Al balled his hands into tight fists. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. "It ain't fair," he muttered.

"Life seldom is," Sister said. "The sooner you learn that and stop being angry about it, the better." She set the pages down on the desk and knelt. "Let me see your foot," she said, her tone not changing at all.

Al obeyed. She looked at the sore place where the heel of the too-large shoe rubbed his skin. She pressed the blister. "Hey!" Al squawked.

Sister Agnes got to her feet. "Now put your shoes back on. I will be back in half an hour to see how much you have finished."

She left the room. Al waited until he was sure she was gone, then got up and walked to her desk. Pain and anger were welling up inside him. He kicked the leg of Sister's desk. It wasn't fair!

So he wasn't supposed to blame others for his problems, was he? Well, was it his fault that Momma had run off with that encyclopedia salesman? Was it his fault Poppa had had to go far away across the sea to work? Or that Poppa had died, even though he'd tried to be a good boy and taken care of Trudy and gone to the church every day to light a candle and pray and pray and pray? Was it his fault that the grown-ups had taken Trudy back to that bad hospital and put him back in here?

Tears were smarting in his eyes, and he blinked them back furiously. He went back to his desk and pulled the sagging, shapeless, and carefully darned wool socks back on, and then the big, uncomfortable shoes. He took a fresh piece of paper and started to re-copy the spoiled page. He wished angrily that something could go right the first time, just once.


	3. Part Three

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part Three**

Al bent down next to his bed and slipped the food out of his pocket, wrapping it deftly into his handkerchief and hiding it between the bedpost and the wall. The other boys were getting ready for bed. Al took off his shoes again, and his socks, and wiggled his bare toes on the cool wooden floor. He unbuttoned his shirt carefully---he'd lost three buttons off of it already, and Sister Marie had threatened to make him sew the next one back on himself. Then he slipped off his trousers and put on his tatty, patched and greying nightshirt. He folded his clothes carefully over the pine box at the foot of the bed, ready for tomorrow.

The dormitory door opened, and twenty-eight boys dove for the edges of their beds, kneeling down and folding their hands in front of themselves in the approved position. Sister Marie led them in their Paternoster and the Ave Maria. Al mumbled the words because if he didn't Sister would make him repeat them alone, but he did so grudgingly, thinking angrily that he didn't mean any of them.

"I'm not praying to You!" he thought viciously, as he always did. "I'm just moving my lips for Sister. You let Poppa die! I'm never going to pray to You again, I swear it! I hate You!"

Then it was over and the boys crawled into their narrow beds. Al punched his limp pillow to soften it. Stork Davis, whose real name was Stuart, got in beside him, and the nightly struggle for the lion's share of the blankets ensued. It was a hollow ritual, because Stork would wind up stealing them all anyway when Al snuck out of bed later, but it seemed necessary to observe the rite.

Al satisfied himself that he had his fair share, and turned his back to his lanky bedfellow. He tried to ignore the cramps in his abdomen as he listened to the other boys fall asleep one by one.

When the dormitory was silent save for the shallow, rhythmic breathing of slumber, Al slipped out of bed and retrieved the bundle of food from under it. He walked on the tips of his toes to the end of the room and past the partition behind which Sister Marie slept. He opened the door halfway, stopping just before the place where it squeaked, and slipped into the hall. Two doors down was the room were the seven, eight and nine-year-old boys slept. He entered it and passed like a scrawny ghost between the two rows of small metal beds, each holding a pair of little sleeping bodies. At the very end, next to the radiator, was the bed he sought.

There was only one occupant in it, since the paralysed leg tended to have a mind of its own at night. Al crouched next to the bed and watched Billy's face, freed of its lopsidedness by the relaxation of repose. The little boy stirred and made a small whimpering sound in the back of his throat. From under the blankets Al could hear the all-too-familiar gurgling of an empty stomach. He put out his hand and shook the smaller boy gently.

One eye shot open, the other twitching, reluctant to obey. A unilateral smile split the child's face.

"Al!" he whispered eagerly. "Food?"

"You bet," Al said, producing the little bundle proudly. Billy sat up and snatched it. "Quiet down," Al warned. "You don't wanta wake Sister up."

Billy ate quickly, devouring the cold repast as if it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. Al watched, denying the protests of his own empty stomach. Billy was hungrier than he was. The Sisters couldn't watch everybody at once, and it was easy for the bullies at any given table to steal food from their weaker neighbours. Billy never got to eat his whole meal.

Al grinned as Billy swallowed the last mouthful of bread and patted his belly happily. "Thank you, Al," he said.

"Sure thing, kid," Al said. He leaned forward as Billy hugged him. "You get some sleep now," he added.

"Okay," Billy said, lying down again. Al tucked him in carefully.

Billy wasn't retarded, he was just a little crippled, with a weak leg and a twisted foot because when he was six he had got very sick with polio. But his round little face and his trusting innocence reminded Al of Trudy. While he watched the little boy fall asleep he thought about Trudy. He wondered if she was okay. He knew she hated the institution. She had never complained, but she had been so happy when Al and Poppa had come to get her, and although she hadn't even cried at Poppa's funeral she had wailed and screamed and fought when Uncle Jack's skinny blond wife had told her she would have to go back.

Soon as he was old enough Al was going to go back for her. The day he turned eighteen he'd be out of this orphanage. They wouldn't let him take Trudy out of the institution until he was twenty-one, but he'd get a good job and make lots of money, and on his twenty-first birthday he'd go back and get Trudy. He would buy a big bag of gumdrops, the orange ones that Trudy loved, and she would be so happy. He would find them a place to live, maybe even buy a house, and they would be a family again. Just him and Trudy.

Billy was asleep now, a happy smile on his little face. Al got up and quietly returned to his bed. Stork had sprawled out over the whole bed, and Al had to shove him over far enough to make a narrow shelf that he could lie on. He tried to wrestle enough of the bedclothes out of the other boy's death-grip to cover his body, but he couldn't quite get the covers to meet the mattress. The draught filtering under the gap made him shiver. He spooned his back in against Stork's side and hugged his knees. Somewhere far away he could hear the thin sobs of a little girl. Al lay awake for a long time, miserable and uncomfortable, before finally drifting into bad dreams.


	4. Part Four

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part Four**

Friday mornings the sixth grade had grammar with Sister Margaret. Most of the class - both the orphans and the neighbourhood kids who came in every day to go to school, but got to go home to mothers and fathers afterwards - bent low over their work, struggling unhappily. Al hated grammar too, but he was good at it. He was halfway through his exercises when there was a knock at the door and Ellen Jeffries, one of the bigger girls with no real academic tendencies, came in. The big girls who didn't go to the high school helped the nuns with the laundry, the little kids, and other things. A couple of them did the shopping with Sister Julia, three of them had jobs outside the orphanage that they went to every day. Ellen ran errands for the nuns who taught school.

"Sister?" she said. "Sister Agnes wants Calavicci in Mother Superior's office."

Al stiffened, eyes suddenly wide. Sister Margaret looked up from her desk. "Why?" she asked.

Ellen shrugged. "She said she wants him now. There's a car outside."

A murmur went up among the orphans, though the outside kids didn't even look up from their work. Al felt sick. A car only meant one of three things. Either a family was coming to adopt somebody, or someone was being taken away to Reform School for some misdemeanor beyond the scope of Sister Agnes's disciplinary measures, or a lawyer was coming with bad news.

It wasn't the first one, because no family wanted an eleven-year-old Italian. People only adopted little ones, with blue eyes and golden hair. Ana Fefner would be adopted, not Al.

The second one was possible. Because of the Black Magic fiasco, Al was the youngest of the Last Chance kids, the ones who were one step away from being shipped off to do some hard time. The ones who stole and lied, who snuck up onto the orphanage roof, or set fire to the tool shed, or smoked cigarettes, or ran away. They had to see the probation officer every Saturday, and the next major offence would be their last. But Al searched and searched his recent misdemeanors, and he couldn't turn up anything nearly serious enough to justify such a severe and irrevocable punishment. Maybe McGinnis had caught him sneaking out of bed last night. He shivered. Sister Agnes was strict, but she was mostly fair. She wouldn't send him to Reform School just because of that.

Then he thought about the third possibility, and a pit of terror formed in his lower abdomen. What if something had happened to Trudy?

"Calavicci, go with Miss Jeffries," Sister Margaret said. Al couldn't move. His limbs were trembling. Something had happened to Trudy.

"Calavicci," Sister repeated.

"Sister Agnes wants him now," Ellen said boredly, picking at her fingernail.

"Calavicci!"

Al got to his feet and stumbled to the door. He followed Ellen down the narrow, dark corridor to Mother Superior's office. She opened the door. Al froze, staring at it and dreading what lay inside.

"What are you, a half-wit?" she asked. "Get in there!"

His heart in his throat, Al entered the room. Sister Agnes sat at Mother Superior's desk: Mother Superior lived at the main convent, not at the orphanage, and she wasn't usually here. Across from her a man and a woman were seated in the two visitors' chairs. The woman was thin and blond, wearing a severe grey dress and a hat with a demi-veil. The man was middle-aged and paunchy, and he wore a black suit.

The man smiled as Al came in. "Al!" he said.

Al stared at him. "Uncle Jack?" he whispered. His throat had gone dry. It was true. Something terrible had happened to Trudy.

"You know why I'm here, son?"

Al couldn't help it. He knew that he was eleven years old, almost twelve, and he was too big to cry. He knew what McGinnis and the other boys would say when they heard about it. But he just couldn't help it. He burst into tears. "Trudy's dead!" he sobbed.


	5. Part Five

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part Five**

For a few minutes, chaos reigned in the office. Uncle Jack stammered awkward denials. The blond woman sat there watching with a thin frown on her lips. Sister Agnes sternly ordered Al to calm down.

"No one is dead, Albert," she said.

"Trudy's not dead, Al, Trudy's fine," Uncle Jack concurred.

Al tried to swallow his sobs, which were now something of a melange of relief and humiliation. Sister pulled out her handkerchief, and gave it to Al. He blew his nose and swallowed a hiccough, looking at Uncle Jack with his watery eyes.

Uncle Jack smiled. Al ventured a half-hearted grin. He liked Uncle Jack, even though he'd taken Trudy to the institution and made him come back here. "Aren't you going to say hello?" Uncle Jack asked.

"H-hello," Al said.

"How've you been?" he asked, leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

"All right," murmured Al. "How's Trudy? Have you seen Trudy?"

"Trudy's fine, son. She's happy at the hospital," Uncle Jack said. "The doctors take good care of her. Your pop found a good place."

Al looked at him sceptically. Maybe the doctors took good care of Trudy, he didn't know about that. The nuns took good care of him, made sure he had a warm bed, even if he had to share it, and clothes, and food; he appreciated that after trying to make it on his own for six cold, hungry, miserable days and nights. But he wasn't happy here, and he didn't believe for a minute that Trudy was happy at the institution.

Uncle Jack chuckled. "What're you looking at me like that for, Al?" he asked.

Al glanced sideways at Sister Agnes, but her face was unreadable. He stared back at Uncle Jack, not sure what to think.

"I brought you a present," Uncle Jack said, bringing a red-and-white striped bag out of his jacket pocket. He held it out. Al transferred his focus to it. "Go ahead, take it. Don't you want a present?"

Al took it, holding it gingerly.

"Open it!" Uncle Jack said, smiling enormously.

Al opened the bag. It was full of brightly colored candy. He looked at it, mouth watering. He hadn't had candy since the police had taken him away from Black Magic, and that had been in March. He didn't dare to take one: he didn't think that he was meant to have any right now.

"Aren't you gonna try it?" Uncle Jack asked. Al looked at him. He liked Uncle Jack, but he hadn't seen him since the day of Poppa's funeral. The thought of Poppa made the painful lump rise in his throat again. "What's the matter, son?" Uncle Jack asked. "Why're you looking like that?"

"Oh, honestly!" the blond woman said, rolling her eyes. She frowned at Al. "Are you a rabbit or a boy? Stop staring and thank your uncle!"

Jack smiled. "Al, you remember your Aunt Marion?"

Al nodded warily. "Hello, Auntie Marion," he mumbled. "Thank you, Uncle Jack."

"I hear you've been busy," Uncle Jack said, his voice jolly and friendly but a little strained. "Sister here says you ran off."

Al shrugged. "Maybe I did."

"She says you were gone almost five months, and when the police brought you back they said you had run off with a colored pool shark," Uncle Jack added with uneasy brightness in his tone. "That must have been an adventure."

Al bristled. "Black Magic isn't a shark," he said fiercely. "He's the best pool player in the world! And I didn't run away with him. I ran away all by myself, and then I met him and he said I could come along with him."

"Why'd you run away, Al?" Uncle Jack asked. "Don't they take good care of you here?"

Al wanted to say that they didn't, and make Uncle Jack feel guilty for making him come back here after Poppa died. He wanted to, but it wasn't true. The Sisters _took_ care of him, they just didn't care _about_ him. He wasn't starving or cold, he was just unhappy. And that was probably his own fault, since he couldn't blame other people for his own misfortunes. He shook his head. "I just didn't like it," he said.

"But why?" Uncle Jack asked. "You didn't ever try to run away before."

Al pursed his lips. Grown-ups were so stupid. Of course he hadn't run away before. Poppa had explained that it was only temporary, just until he could make enough money that they could settle down and buy a house. Poppa had asked him to be good, to be patient, and to set an example for Trudy. So he had, and Poppa had kept his promise. He had come back, and he'd got them both out. He'd bought a house. Then he'd gotten sick. Now Al didn't have to keep his promise to Poppa because there was no reason to be good. He was never going to get out of here and he was never going to live in a house.

"Albert, answer your uncle," Aunt Marion said sternly. Al looked at her mutely. He had never liked her much. She was too strict, she didn't like jokes or fun, and she had called Trudy retarded. A moron, he thought she'd said, when Trudy was kicking and screaming and crying in the churchyard next to Poppa's open grave and the adults were all fighting with her, trying to make her understand she would have to go back to the institution.

"Al? Did you have fun with this… pool player?" Uncle Jack asked. He sounded genuinely interested, and Al nodded. Uncle Jack smiled. "He teach you how to play?" Al nodded again. "I've been known to play a little pool myself, you know."

"Yeah?" Al asked.

"Jack!" Aunt Marion hissed, looking scandalized. "That's a fine way to talk to a little boy!"

"He's not little—are you, Al?" Uncle Jack asked.

"I'm eleven and a half," Al said.

"See! Practically a man!" said Uncle Jack. "Say, Al, your aunt Marion and I have been thinking about this for a long time, and we've got something we want to ask you."

"What?" Al asked, instantly back on his guard. Usually adults asked things he didn't want to do.

"Well, you know I've bought Mister Walker's garage?"

"No," Al said. Last he had heard Uncle Jack was working as a mechanic at a garage and junk yard in Jersey.

"Oh." Uncle Jack looked a little taken aback. "Well, I have. It's a good business, and I'm doing really well. But boy, I tell you, I could sure use a smart kid to help me around the shop."

He grinned expectantly. Al didn't know what to think.

"Well?" Uncle Jack said eagerly.

Al looked at him blankly.

"Honestly, Jack,' Aunt Marion muttered. She turned to Al. "Listen, Albert, your uncle and I want to take you out of here. You can live with us, you can go to school, and you can learn the business. We are willing to adopt you, and you will inherit the business when the time comes. But we aren't going to take you unless you promise that you are going to stop making so much trouble. No running away, no stealing, no rudeness. Can you promise that?"

Al couldn't breathe. Did she mean it? He could leave the orphanage and go to live with Uncle Jack?

"How 'bout it, son?" Uncle Jack asked, beaming happily. "I could be your new pop."

Al tried to answer, but his lips moved soundlessly.

"What is wrong with you?" Aunt Marion demanded. "Your uncle is offering to give you a home. Don't you want a home?"

"A home?" Al croaked.

"That's right, son," Uncle Jack said.

"We could be a… a family?" Al whispered. He wanted to believe it, but it couldn't really be true. It just couldn't. It was too wonderful.

"Yes," Uncle Jack said. "A family."

Al looked anxiously at Sister Agnes. He didn't like her, she was strict and bossy and no fun at all, but he knew she wouldn't lie to him, and she wouldn't let anybody else lie to him, either. As he turned to her she did something he had never seen her do. She smiled, nodding.

The bag of sweets fell to the floor as Al threw his arms around Uncle Jack's neck.


	6. Part Six

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part Six**

Al dove under the narrow metal bed and dragged out an old, battered carpetbag. He opened the cupboard and took out his extra underclothes and socks, and his one change of clothes, stuffing them into the bag. He opened the box at the foot of the bed and took out his jacket, the one Black Magic had bought him. Under it was a brown paper bag. He picked it up carefully, with both hands, and set it on the bed. He opened it and peered inside. There was an old, dog-eared book on top, a copy of "Tom Sawyer" that Momma had used to read him, before she started to get sad, and cry all the time, and start snapping impatiently at Trudy and giving her smacks when she was slow to listen. Al lifted out the book. Underneath it there were seven marbles, a heart-shaped copper pendant that had belonged to Poppa's momma, a matchbox with a shimmering green beetle pinned inside, a round, pearly cue ball, and a little leather frame. He took out the frame and looked at the photograph inside.

A little house sat over a bare, grassy lawn. In front of it, smiling enormously and waving to the camera, was Poppa, and Trudy and Al. Al looked at it, and for the first time since Poppa's death the sight didn't make him want to cry. Poppa was gone, but the dream of a family and a house was going to come true after all. Uncle Jack, Poppa's big brother, was taking him out of here. Uncle Jack was going to adopt him and Trudy, and they were going to be happy.

But now he had to hurry: Uncle Jack and Aunt Marion were finishing up the paperwork with Sister Agnes. They were going to take him home right now, even though it would take time to get through the adoption. He carefully put his treasures back into their bag and set the package gently in the carpetbag. His fingers lingered over the rosary on top of his cupboard, but he retracted his hand empty. He wasn't going to need that. He buttoned it closed over his meager possessions, slung the handles over his shoulder and ran for the door.

Uncle Jack was waiting for him by the front door. Al bounded up, happier than he had been for more than a year. His uncle ruffled the curls on the top of his head.

"Your aunt'll be along in a minute," he said. "Didn't think you'd be so quick."

"Oh, I'm quick," Al said, eager to please. "I'm the quickest! I'll make sure Trudy's quick too, Uncle Jack, I promise!"

Uncle Jack's expression changed almost imperceptibly. "Trudy?" he said.

"Yup!" Al enthused. "Sometimes she can be a little slow, she likes to dawdle, and you have to tell her things two or three times. It's not that she's stupid, though, she just sometimes has trouble understanding what you're saying. But she mostly always understands me, so anything you want to tell her you can tell me first and I'll explain it so she understands. She's a good helper too, she can wipe the dishes and everything, as long as you don't give her the good glass ones, because sometimes she doesn't pay attention and she drops them, but it isn't her fault, because I'm pretty distracting, and---"

"Woah, slow down, Al," Uncle Jack said, chuckling. "You're going to run out of air."

"Sorry," Al said. He threw his arms around the adult's chest. "Uncle Jack, I love you!"

"I love you too, son," Jack said, looking a little uncomfortable at the prospect. Then he frowned pensively. "But what's all this about Trudy?"

"Oh, she's a good girl, Uncle Jack. And she's awfully sweet. She loves orange gumdrops—can we get her some orange gumdrops?" Al asked. "Are we getting her today, or will we go tomorrow? I know it's a long drive to the hospital, but she'd be so happy if we got her today! I—"

Something in the adult's expression made him stop. "What is it, Uncle Jack?" Al whispered. "What's wrong? You said that Trudy was okay."

"She is, son, she is," Uncle Jack said. "She's just fine. But… well… we're not going to bring her home right away."

"We're not?" Al asked in a very small voice, his stomach dropping. "Why not?"

"Well… uh…" Jack seemed to be struggling to find words. Al backed away a little, staring at him. "You see, Al, we need to see how it works out with you first and… er…"

Al wanted to cry. Uncle Jack didn't want to take Trudy right away because he was scared Al wouldn't be good. Al knew he hadn't been very good this last year, but it hadn't really been his fault. He'd had to run away, he'd been so unhappy, and Magic had found him and taken care of him, so it had been all right. And the other things… they just couldn't! They couldn't leave Trudy in the institution because of him!

"I'll be good, Uncle Jack!" he said desperately. "I'll be good! I'll never try to run away, I'll study hard at school, I'll make my bed every morning and keep my shoes shined up and I'll help you at the garage. I'll even help Aunt Marion with the laundry and stuff if you want me to. I'll do anything you want, just please don't leave Trudy in that place because of me!"

Jack reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Al could see sadness in his eyes, and it frightened him. "Not because of you, son. It's just that Marion and I have never had any children around the place, and we have to see how it works out. You understand. But maybe, after a while, maybe we might be able to go and get Trudy out of the---"

"Absolutely not!" a domineering voice said. Aunt Marion had come around the corner, with Sister Agnes behind her. The blond woman turned on her husband. "We discussed this, we had an agreement, and I'm not going to give you any chance to back out of it! You want to take in your dead brother's criminal little son, that's your business. God knows it would be good to have a boy around the place. But I am not going to have that moon-faced horror in my house."

Jack cast a pleading look at his wife. "Marion, the boy—"

"No! You are going to be truthful, and you are going to be firm, just like you promised," Marion said. "Tell him!"

Jack glanced at Al, who was watching with wide-eyed confusion and growing horror, then back at his unyielding wife. He sighed heavily. "Aw, Mary…"

"Tell him!" she repeated.

Al watched Uncle Jack turn. He put his hand back on the bony little shoulder. "Son," he said; "Trudy isn't well. She's not like other children, you know that."

"She's not sick," Al said reflexively. "Just… just a little different."

"Different," Jack said. "That's just it, son, she's different. She's happier with people like her, with her own kind."

"I'm her brother," Al said. "I'm her kind. She's happiest with me."

"No, son. She's better off in the hospital where there are nurses to take care of her," Jack said softly.

"Oh, no, Uncle Jack, you're wrong!" Al said earnestly. If Uncle Jack understood he was wrong, maybe he'd change his mind. "She's not happy there, it isn't better for her. Trudy's better off with her family. She can live with us, we'll be a family. A real family," he repeated wistfully. It was what he wanted more than anything else in the world.

Uncle Jack shook his head. "Al, your aunt and I can't take care of her. You have to understand that."

"I'll take care of her!" Al protested. "I can take good care of her! I took care of her when Poppa was sick, I took care of her _and_ Poppa!"

"There is no room in the house for another child," Aunt Marion said. "Now stop this nonsense and let's go."

"She can have my bed!" Al said hastily. "I'll sleep on the floor, I don't mind that! Lots of times me and Magic camped out in pool halls and clubs; I don't mind sleeping on the floor! Trudy won't be any trouble, I'll look after her!"

"Jack," Aunt Marion said warningly. The reference to that Negro the boy had run away with made her uncomfortable. Such things simply weren't done, and she wondered what she was getting herself in to.

Uncle Jack sighed heavily. "Al, we can't take Trudy. I'm sorry, I know that's hard for you. But she needs to stay in the hospital."

"No!" Al cried. "No! She doesn't want to be in that old hospital, she wants a family and a house and a yard to play in! She wants to live with us, Uncle Max, with you and me and Aunt Marion!"

Jack scratched the back of his neck. "Aw, son, it's not as if she really knows the difference…"

Al felt the anger brimming up in his heart. He hated it when people talked like Trudy wasn't a person; when they acted like she didn't have feelings just because she wasn't so quick to understand things.

"She does, she does!" he shouted. "She does too know the difference! Just because she's a little bit retarded doesn't mean she doesn't want a family! And it's not her fault she's retarded, it isn't her fault! It isn't!" He stamped his foot. "You can't leave Trudy in that crummy hospital, you can't! She needs a family! She needs me! I'm her brother! She needs me!"

Suddenly Aunt Marion seized his shoulders and shook him. The shouts died on his lips and he stared at her in shock. Aunt Marion had never touched him before. She glared into his eyes with a look that was much more terrible than any expression he had ever seen before.

"You listen to me, Albert Calavicci," she said sternly. "We're going to have none of these tantrums. You are almost twelve years old, and you are going to behave like it. Now calm down and apologize to your uncle for shouting at him."

Al started to shake. The fit of choler had passed, and now he was frightened by his own loss of control. "I'm sorry for shouting, Uncle Jack," he said meekly.

Jack smiled. "It's all right, son. No harm done. Now what do you say we get in the car, and we'll stop for sodas before we head out of town?"

"What about Trudy?" Al asked.

Aunt Marion rolled her eyes heavenwards. "I think he might be the one who's retarded," she muttered. She put her hands on her hips. "Albert," she said sternly. "We can't take your sister, she will be better off in the hospital, and that is where she is going to stay. You are welcome in our house as long as you behave yourself, but Trudy is staying in the hospital."

"Forever?" Al whispered, feeling a horrible pain in his chest.

"Yes." The look in her eyes said there would be no arguing.

Al looked imploringly at Uncle Max, but the man looked away ashamedly.

"Now," Aunt Marion said; "come along. If you're going to be our new son we'll have to get you some decent clothes. We'll see about that after we get the sodas." She held out her hand for Al to take.

He stood very still, the blood pounding in his ears. He wanted a family. He wanted a home. He wanted new clothes, and a bed of his own, he wanted to go to school like the children with mothers and fathers, not to live at school. He wanted a house, a yard that didn't have walls around it, and a car to ride in. But Trudy wanted all those things too, just as much as he did.

Slowly, painfully, he shook his head. "No," he said.

"What?" Aunt Marion said.

"No," Al repeated. "Trudy and me, we're family. You gotta take both or none. You don't want Trudy, you don't really want me, neither."

"You mean you would rather stay here than live with us?" Marion asked.

"I got to stick with Trudy," Al said. "I'm her brother. She stays in the hospital, I stay here."

Jack shook his head. "Son, you don't mean that. You and me are family too. Your pop was my kid brother!"

"Trudy's my sister, and I'm not going with you if you won't take her, too," Al said.

"You stupid little boy, what good are you doing her in here?" Marion demanded.

"I can't be in a family without Trudy."

"You can't seriously mean you don't want to be adopted!" Marion said. "Just because your retarded little sister---"

Al couldn't stand it any more. He stamped his foot. "Don't you say that! Don't you call Trudy retarded!" he bellowed, forgetting in his rage that he had used the same word himself minutes ago. "You leave her alone! I hate you! I hate you!"

With a sob of desolation and inexpressible rage, he ran away, down the corridor and as far away from the hateful grown-ups as he could.

"Well, that was a lucky escape," Marion said indignantly as the boy disappeared from view. "That boy will come to a bad end."

"Lucky escape," Jack echoed sadly. His wife was probably right.


	7. Part Seven

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Part Seven**

Al lay face down on his bed, the bed that was going to be his and Stork's for a long, long time. He had cried until he couldn't cry any more and now he just felt tired and wretched. He wanted a family, but it wouldn't be a family at all without Trudy. He loved Uncle Jack, but he loved Trudy more. So he was going to have to stay here, in the lousy orphanage, until he was eighteen. That was forever. Six and a half years was forever.

He heard familiar footsteps behind him. Sister Agnes. He felt a thrill of fear. Sister did not approve of shouting, she did not approve of disrespectful treatment of one's elders. She was going to punish him. Maybe she was going to send him to Reform School.

"Albert," Sister said in the cool, formal voice she always used when she wasn't especially angry. "Sit up."

Al obeyed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. His eyes felt puffy and red, his head was like a bubble of air. He looked at Sister. She had her hands inside the sleeves of her habit. She didn't look angry, but that was probably just a trick.

"Go ahead and punish me," he said defiantly. "But I'm not gonna apologize. She shouldn'ta said that about Trudy."

"And you should not have shouted," Sister said. "Your aunt and uncle have left. I am afraid they may be reconsidering their choice to adopt you."

"I'm not gonna let them adopt me!" Al snapped ferociously. "Not without Trudy."

Sister didn't say anything for a long time. Then she slowly drew her hands out of her sleeves. "Try these on," she said. "Perhaps they will not hurt your feet."

In her hands she held a pair of shoes from a charity hamper. They were scuffed and worn, the leather fraying to a fine fuzz around the tops. But they had new black shoe strings, and Al could tell just by looking at them that they were a better fit than the ones on his feet. He took them and tried them on.

"Walk around the room," Sister Agnes instructed. Al obeyed. "How do they fit?"

"They're better," Al said. "They don't rub my ankles."

"Good. We can't have you getting blisters," Sister said dispassionately.

Al bent down and picked up the other pair, handing them to her. "Thank you, Sister," he said politely. He was too worn out for anything but good manners.

Sister Agnes did not take the shoes. "Put them in your cupboard," she instructed. "They will fit you in a few months."

Al stared at her, not sure he had heard her right. Nobody had two pairs of shoes. Nobody. It was an extravagance. A whole pair of shoes just to sit in the cupboard and wait for his feet to grow into them… he couldn't believe it. That didn't mean he was going to question it, though. He did as Sister Agnes instructed.

"Now," Sister said. "Go and wash your face, then you may go outside and enjoy the rest of recess. Your classmates are out there now."


	8. Epilogue

Al Calavicci struggles with an impossible choice – liberty or loyalty.

**BOTH OR NONE – Epilogue**

Al hadn't been out of detention for almost six weeks. On any other day he would have been overjoyed to be allowed to join in the game of kickball going on by the gate, or to run footraces with the seventh-grade boys. Today, exhausted from his crying, he wandered with his hands in his pockets, thinking about Uncle Jack and Aunt Marion and Trudy. He kicked a stone, scuffing his new shoe against the pavement. His heart was heavy. He was never going to be happy again.

A little girl from the first grade ran up to one of the yard monitors and threw her arms around her neck. The bigger girl hugged her tight, her face lit up with a radiant smile. Al thought about Trudy and the big bear-hugs she loved to give. And the way she would pet your cheek and make you feel like you were the most wonderful person in the world. Trudy really cared, she really loved, and Al missed that. He wanted someone to care about him, but nobody did.

"Hey, Calavicci!" an eager voice shouted. Al looked up this time, though he had ignored the calls of the other boys.

Gianna Polini, one of the seventh-grade girls, waved at him. It was she who had called. She stood near the tool shed, beckoning. He knew what she wanted. They had done it before, hiding behind the shed where the raspberry bushes shielded them from Sister Marie's watchful eyes. She had a way of flicking her tongue against his teeth that always made their kisses especially enjoyable. And she would let him feel the soft, round places through her dress. Normally he would have been thrilled at the prospect, but today he wasn't.

"What'sa matter? Cat got your tongue?" Gianna asked. "You losing your touch, Calavicci?"

"No," Al said numbly, staring at his feet.

She put her arm around his waist. He surprised himself by leaning into her grip It felt good to be touched by somebody that way: gently, as if they cared. It didn't matter that Gianna didn't really care, it was just nice that she could pretend to care.

Al decided he could pretend too. He worked his hand around her back and squeezed her hip. She smiled and led him quickly behind the tool shed. He followed eagerly.

FINIS


End file.
